


Armistice

by rosiesbar



Series: In All Kinds Of Weather [9]
Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: 1950s, Bigotry & Prejudice, Discrimination, Domestic, Established Relationship, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Series, Post-War, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 06:40:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6894160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosiesbar/pseuds/rosiesbar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>July, 1953. A devastating encounter leaves Hawkeye shaken and forever changed, and Trapper shows a side of himself that Hawkeye doesn't care to see. Korea is worlds away from them now... or so they thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Armistice

**Boston – July 26** **th** **1953**

Hawkeye's heart pounded. His feet thudded clumsily against the wood, his toes threatening to catch on every step and send him tumbling to the floor. His breath was ragged, his chest burning, his head throbbing as his adrenaline addled brain struggled to make sense of what had just happened.

Funny. He thought it would hurt more. But aside from the initial impact, he hadn't felt much pain at all.

He reached his floor, and sprinted down the corridor. Somewhere beyond the thrumming in his ears, he could hear shouting behind him. The peeling green paint of his apartment door appearing before him was almost like a beacon, spurring him on with the temptation of sanctuary. The corridor felt endless, and it seemed the nearer Hawkeye got to the safety of home, the more afraid he felt that his pursuers were sure to catch up with him and drag him back.

He scrambled his keys out of his pocket several seconds before he slammed into the door. Struggling to grip the key between his trembling fingers, he now pictured himself fumbling with it, failing to jam it into the lock in time. His palms were sweaty, his hands shaky, and yet somehow he managed on the first attempt. The door opened, and a second later, Hawkeye was safe inside.

The door slammed closed. A few seconds later, somebody's fist slammed against it, and the wood vibrated as Hawkeye slid into an exhausted heap on the floor, hugged his knees to his chest as he tried to block out the angry shouting and threats that permeated into his cosy little safe haven.

For one of the first times in his life, he didn't have a witty retort for these people. He was just terrified. Terrified and bruised – oh, and bleeding. He only noticed when he saw the drops landing on his favourite aquamarine summer shirt, spreading into almost perfect red circles against the turquoise and white stripes. He pressed a hand to his face and studied the smears of red that came away on his fingers. Uh-oh, better do something about that.

His injuries weren't quite as bad as he'd expected, but definitely worse than they'd felt. Once the adrenaline had begun to wear off – and once he'd scraped himself off the floor in the hallway – the pain started to set in, and he limped through to the bathroom. He stared at himself in the mirror for a while, trying to absorb what had just happened.

He'd always known it was a possibility – he'd just never had to deal with it before. He'd spent the past two years dealing with housing discrimination, dismissals and unemployment. Life was one long parade of crises and disappointments: his discharge from the army, his inability to hold down a job, the constant need to move. He and Trapper had learned to worry without worrying, planning for the next loss of earnings or an eviction that could come at any time. Fear of violence had been a vague, almost mythical beast somewhere in the back of Hawkeye's mind, something he'd figured he'd left in the playground in Crabapple Cove. Here in Boston, rumours of beatings were not unheard, but after years of gliding under the radar, moving on when the threats started rather than waiting around to see if there was any real danger, he'd figured the victims had to be unusually careless or intoxicated. They must have hit on the wrong guy, or been staggering home from a bar and brushed up against their partner in a way that drew the wrong kind of attention, or they were outwardly flamboyant and effeminate in a way that made Hawkeye – for all his cabaret music hall style antics – look like a lumberjack.

He never thought it could happen to him. Especially not now, not here. There had been no warning, no snide notes under the door or dirty looks in the corridor. And he and Trapper had been subtle! How could anybody know? They'd only lived here a matter of weeks, after being forced to move from their last place, and had stretched their meagre budget to a two bedroom apartment too, for the sake of appearances…

As Hawkeye stared at his reflection, though, watching as a puffy purple bruise rose up around his eye socket, and blood seeped from the scrape on his cheek where his face had hit the floor, he came to the irrefutable conclusion that it had, in fact, happened.

Perching on the edge of the bathtub, he disinfected and dressed his wounds as if in a trance. The cuts and scrapes were minor. The bruises were worse. His ribs were… (he counted his way down and felt around) intact. The emotional damage wasn't assessable. He just felt… numb.

He had no idea how long he sat there. Eventually, the rattle of the key in the lock broke his trance. Trapper's voice echoed through the apartment – a casual "Yo!" that always reminded Hawkeye of his insubordinate response to roll-call back when they were in Korea.

Hawkeye froze. He suddenly found himself… almost _embarrassed_ to show his face to Trapper. He was the one who had assured Trapper that they had nothing to worry about; he was the one who cracked saucy jokes in public and asserted that 'hiding in plain sight' had never let him down.

And now here he was, battered and bruised and dripping blood on the bathroom tiles – a walking, wounded testament to the failure of his hypothesis. His bruises, a badge of shame.

He heard his name being called as Trapper ventured into the living room. Hawkeye scrambled to tidy up the medical kit, and for a split second even entertained lying over how he got his black eye. He knew why – he knew how Trapper would respond. It wasn't a question of pride that prompted him to bundle the disinfectant into the box and the cotton balls down the toilet, as if disposing of the possessions of a secret lover. That wasn't the reason he had an urge to cover up contusions as if they were love bites.

He knew it was futile. There was a knock on the door, and Trapper's voice sounded once more: "Hawk? You in there?"

Hawkeye winced. "Yeah…."

"Can I come in?"

Hawkeye gave the mirror one last despairing glance. "Yeah, but… don't fly off the handle, okay?"

The door opened, and one Trapper John McIntyre peered through. He was met with the sight of Hawkeye, perched forlornly on the edge of the bath, hunched over with his head down and his fingers curled anxiously over the rim of the bathtub.

Trapper moved closer. His heavy work boots thudded ominously on the tiled floor, and Hawkeye almost felt scared all over again. He had to force himself to look up.

As his eyes met with Trapper's, he saw his partner recoil in shock. His eyes widened, and just for a moment, he looked like he was about to weep. But then, an instant later, his lip curled with rage.

"Who did this to you?"

"Some guy on the stairs…" Hawkeye began his explanation, not sure if Trapper was even listening, as he was already inches away from Hawkeye's face, staring intently at his injuries.

"Somebody from the building? One o' the _neighbours_?"

"Yeah… _No_! I mean, maybe. I don't know. One of 'em was – I didn't know the others."

" _Others_?"

"Uh… yeah. Well, when a said 'some guy' I actually meant more like… four." He tried tentatively for a joke. "Math was never my strong point." A thin smile. A puny excuse for a laugh.

"Go on." Trapper's voice had a menacing, dark edge to it, and Hawkeye shuddered. This wasn't a side to him that he was fond of, but his protective streak was occasionally touching.

"They just passed me on the stairs – a big group of guys. I didn't think anything of it. Next thing I know I get my feet kicked out from under me and I'm on my face on the floor at the bottom of the stairs."

"Is this all the damage?"

"I think the lobby might have a mild case of woodworm."

An angry huff from Trapper.

"I got away before they could do much more." Hawkeye's voice sounded more dismissive of the incident than he really felt. "Nothing's broken – I'm okay."

Trapper huffed again and paced angrily, one hand rubbing at his face, the other tightening into a ball and swinging ominously at his side. "They know about us?" The question was spat with more aggression than was necessary. " _That_ why they beat up on you?"

"Oh, I'd say so. Judging by the colourful use of language I was serenaded with while I was lying on the floor having my head kicked in. I never knew there were so many words for 'queer'."

" _Gah_!" Trapper bristled, and stopped himself from punching the wall by mere inches.

"They _actually_ called me a–"

" _I don't wanna hear it_!"

Trapper held his hand up, and Hawkeye fell silent. He sat there for a moment, unsure what to say. He'd thought maybe talk of the verbal attack might keep Trapper's temper from going off the rails, but apparently not. Trapper, meanwhile, regarded him with a look that was equal parts concern, guilt, and rage.

"Sorry," Trapper managed to splutter at last, as he calmed himself down and tried to avoid ripping the towel rail off the wall. "I don't like hearin' people talk about ya like that."

Hawkeye shrugged. "I'd rather they did that than hit me." He gave a little chuckle.

Trapper didn't laugh. "That eye looks nasty," he muttered, moving closer and gently pressing around the bruise. "Does it hurt?"

Hawkeye flinched. "Ow! Yes! Especially if you _poke_ at it." He slapped Trapper's hand away, but held onto it for comfort as they sat in the dim confines of the bathroom.

Both were silent for a moment, until Trapper spoke again: "The guy you recognised – what apartment is he?"

Hawkeye's eyes widened, at least as far as his bruises would allow. " _Oh_ no! I tell you that, and the next thing I know you're gonna fly off and do your vigilante thing! Well, forget it! My head is already pounding – the last thing I need is the Bruce Wayne of Boston running around trying to avenge me!"

"Hawkeye…"

"If you want to help, then… then take me to my bed and just _hold_ me for God's sake! Kiss my bruises and tell me it'll be okay! Or better yet, go get me some headache pills and a pack of ice. Do _not_ go spoiling for a fight!"

"Hawk…" Trapper spoke gently and calmly, and even managed a smile. "I ain't about to go an' smash any heads. I just wanna know who the hell clobbered my guy, so as I know to watch my back in future."

Hawkeye thought on it for a moment, and then, after consideration, he silenced his distrust and nodded in acquiescence. "2A," he said at last.

Trapper nodded. "Right. Got it."

With those words, he stood up, turned, and stormed out of the bathroom.

" _Trapper_!"

Hawkeye didn't have a chance at stopping him. He tripped over the bath mat, caught his sleeve on the bathroom door handle, and by the time he reached the front door, he found that Trapper had locked it from the outside. Hammering on the door and yelling Trapper's name got no response, and, for the second time that day, Hawkeye sank to the floor, leaning against the front door and burying his face in silent despair.

* * *

Trapper flinched as Hawkeye dabbed a disinfectant-soaked cotton swab to the deep cut on his lower lip.

"Jackass," Hawkeye muttered, holding Trapper's head still and applying the cotton again.

"I ain't doin' it on purpose!" Trapper protested, sounding more commanding than he looked, sprawled out on the couch with his head in Hawkeye's lap. "It _hurts_!"

"I'm not talking about this – I'm talking about you going and _lamping_ the neighbours! You can't _do that_ , Trapper! Especially not over this! All you did was make it worse!" He slapped the cotton against the other cut – the one on Trapper's chin from where his face had hit the floorboards – and Trapper yelped. "Like I said – _jackass_! You complete and utter moronic, idiotic, stupid, unthinking–"

"I said I was _sorry_ , didn't I?! Ain't I said 'sorry' a dozen times already?"

Hawkeye didn't grace that with a response. He just snorted and turned his attention to mopping blood out of Trapper's hairline.

"Look, I did it for _you_ , alright? Ya think I like comin' home an' findin' you all beat up, lookin' like that? An' knowin' that the guy who did it lives right down the hall? All I wanted was to _protect_ me an' mine!"

Hawkeye rolled his eyes, sighed, and spoke as if he would to a small child: "Well, that's _very_ sweet of you honey, but I'd appreciate if you showed your caring side in a way that didn't involve _pummelling_ anybody!"

"You ain't seriously _defendin'_ those assholes, are ya? They had it comin', beatin' up on ya like that!"

"Really? Be nice to see how that stands up in a court of law. 'I maintain that I _did_ commit assault, Your Honour, but, in my defence, 'they had it comin'!'" With these words, he nudged Trapper off his lap and went to dispose of the cotton.

Trapper sat up, scowling at him. "'S just how I deal with things."

Hawkeye stared at him as he dumped his bloody handful in the trash. "Well, _that's_ nice to know! Is this something you make a habit of? The next time I piss you off, am I going to get a knuckle sandwich too? I didn't know I was living with a ticking time bomb of pent-up aggression!"

"Oh, I'm sorry! Did I offend you and your nice little country boy sensibilities? What did you want me to do, huh? Stick a letter in the mailbox and ask 'em to come an' discuss it over blueberry pie an' cookies?"

Hawkeye's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

Trapper shot him a look. "We ain't all brought up in a cute little small-town paradise like Crabapple Fuckin' Cove, where the only arguments are over goddamn chowder recipes, an' whether or not the old broad who runs the flower store really _does_ grow her own lupins! Where I'm from, guys used to slug each other all the time! An' if somebody messes with me, then that's _exactly_ when I'm gonna do! I'm sorry if you don't like it, but that's just how I deal with things! So maybe instead of sittin' there on your high horse, you could give your pacifism crap a rest and just be damned _grateful_ that I care about ya enough to take a punch or two for ya."

Hawkeye blinked at him. "Thank you for that lovely spot of Hallmark sentimentality straight out of the Boston slums."

"I got a newsflash for ya, Hawkeye – you're _in_ the Boston slums! You ain't in _Maine_ anymore, Toto!"

"I've got in fights before! I'm not totally naïve!" Hawkeye gave Trapper's legs a shove and squeezed into the space next to him on their tiny couch. "I'll get in one more if I hear you talk about Crabapple Cove like that again!" He shot Trapper a glare. It was a glare that was slightly spoiled by the fact that he was pouting like a petulant child.

Trapper couldn't help but smile at that. "You really wanna fight me, kiddo?"

Hawkeye's angry scowl relaxed, and his gaze flickered. "Sure, I'm up for that!" He shrugged.

"You even know _how_ to fight?"

Another shrug. "Sure! We stand up, back to back, walk five paces and uh… sock each other. I think for the sake of gentlemanly conduct, we should choose weapons rather than fists so, uh… I choose throw pillows."

True to his word, Hawkeye reached back, and gently socked Trapper in the back of the head – with a throw pillow.

Trapper couldn't quite keep a straight face after that, and, as Hawkeye watched the smirk begin to creep up from the corners of his lips, he chuckled. Then, as they both succumbed to gentle, bitter-sweet laughter, and, as Hawkeye grinned at him, Trapper reached out and cupped his face, his thumb tracing the outline of one of his bruises. And then, just as suddenly, his good humour vanished, and his face fell as he tenderly caressed Hawkeye's wounded face.

Hawkeye leaned into his touch and grasped his hand. "What is it?"

Trapper sighed and shook his head. "You know, Hawk… you talk a lotta talk, but for all yer bangin' on the peace drum, I ain't the only one sittin' here with a black eye an' a bloody nose."

Hawkeye's frowned. "Yeah, I know, but my point is that yours could have been _avoided_." Trapper was spared any further lecture by a knock on the door. Hawkeye frowned and pulled away. "That'll be the super telling us we've got twenty-four hours to get out…"

He left Trapper alone, vanishing into the hallway for a conversation he _really_ didn't want to have. Left alone in the living room, Trapper clenched his bruised hands into fists once more as he stared, unseeing, out of the window and into a familiar yet threatening city.

* * *

It was a lousy end to a lousy day. It was late now, but they still had packing to do. By the time darkness fell, they found themselves sitting on the floor of what was once their bedroom, surrounded by cardboard boxes. Slumped in a heap, Hawkeye laid his head on Trapper's lap. The tinny sound of their little wireless radio washed over him. They'd carried the thing around with them as they'd packed, but now the music stations were winding down. Eddie Fisher's latest love song, ' _With These Hands_ ', provided a sedate, calming close to the entertainments, and they sat together and listened. Trapper ran his fingers lovingly through Hawkeye's hair, his earlier sharpness forgiven. Hawkeye squeezed his knee affectionately. The song finished and faded out, and the DJ wrapped up his spot before handing the proceedings over to the dry, dull monotone of a news announcer.

Hawkeye was barely listening, but somehow the words penetrated the exhausted fog of his conscious mind, and grabbed his attention.

"Did I hear that right?"

Trapper was half asleep, his head resting on the bed. "Huh?"

Hawkeye sat up, straining to hear the radio through the static. But two words were unmistakable: 'Korea' and 'Armistice'. A third soon followed: 'Peace'.

Hawkeye and Trapper sat listening in silence as the announcer concluded his segment, and the familiar voice of the President drifted across the airwaves.

" _Tonight we greet, with prayers of thanksgiving, the official news that an armistice was signed almost an hour ago in Korea. It will quickly bring to an end the fighting_ …"

Hawkeye sat bolt upright. His whole body turned rigid, his head whipping round to look at the wireless as if it were television. Trapper, meanwhile, remained motionless, sitting as still as the grave as a thousand unwanted memories played through his head.

_"With special feelings of sorrow-and of solemn gratitude-we think of those who were called upon to lay down their lives in that far-off land to prove once again that only courage and sacrifice can keep freedom alive upon the earth…"_

Hawkeye sniffed, and wiped his hand across his eyes. Trapper merely stared at the floor.

_"…and to those veterans who bear disabling wounds, America renews tonight her pledge of lasting devotion and care…"_

Trapper twitched slightly, his hands shaking as he pulled Hawkeye closer, his mouth a thin, grim line as his eyes wandered almost accusingly to the little radio.

At last, the President concluded his speech, quoting Abraham Lincoln's second Inaugural Address: _"With malice toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in . . . to do all which we may achieve and cherish a just and a lasting peace, among ourselves, and with all nations."_

Without comment, Trapper extricated himself from Hawkeye's embrace, got to his feet, and snapped the radio off.

The silence that followed was almost eerie. Hawkeye remained, sat on the floor, hunched against the bedstead, his elbows resting on his knees as his hands trembled before him.

"Do you think they made it?"

Hawkeye's voice cracked a little, and Trapper glanced back at him only to see him succumb helpless to emotion, his body curling in on itself, tears glistening on his face as he hid it between his shaking arms, feeling overwhelming him.

Gathering him in his arms, Trapper stroked his hair and dried his tears. "Of course they did, Hawk. Hell, most of the people we knew probably won't even be there anymore! They'd'a got their points and shipped out months back! There'll be a totally different bunch of doctors there now – new guys they got in after we left, and a whole bunch of others besides. Klinger'll be pullin' scams in Toldeo, Hotlips'll be pullin' Colonels in Fort Ord, an' Henry'll be pullin' tonsils out in Bloomington!"

Hawkeye sniffed and wiped his face. "And Radar?"

That caught Trapper by surprise. He'd never gotten over Radar's sudden wariness around them after Frank's… announcement, but maybe this wasn't the time to be brooding over past grudges. He swallowed, nodded, and forced a smile. "Probably up to his elbows in dirt back in Iowa."

Nodding, Hawkeye pulled him closer. "I don't know why it's getting to me! I just… I can't believe it's actually over. And yet somehow… I almost forgot it was still happening, you know? And I feel terrible about it! After everything we saw… How could I just _forget_ that?"

He understood, but Trapper had no words to offer. While Hawkeye felt guilty for not remembering, Trapper had fought to push it from his mind. It hadn't been hard – they'd dealt with so much in such short a space of time, and Trapper had lost so much, besides. He might not dwell on Korea, nor did he care to, but the wounds cut deep, and the scars it had left would never heal.

And now, as he held his weeping partner on the floor of their squalid apartment, surrounded by all their possessions, and both of them bruised and shaken, he felt nothing but bitterness for the events that had brought them together. The President had spoken of 'devotion and care' for those who had served, but Trapper knew all too well that such promises were hollow. Not so much as a kind word would be spared for people like him, and for many others besides. The one's who fled in fear, the ones who couldn't cope, the ones who didn't fit… all were disposable, just like the lives of the boys who landed, wave after wave, on the operating tables of the 4077th, and other units besides.

Closing his eyes, Former US Captain John Xavier McIntyre pushed away those memories of bloodied bodies and the din of shells. And now, in the warzone of what passed for his civilian life, he held on tightly to the one thing that he was grateful to have salvaged from the mess of his army career. Tomorrow, they would face another battle together. An Armistice had been reached, but peace, it seemed, was a long time coming.

**Author's Note:**

> This is not a songfic, but I am trying to incorporate the music and television of the era into the stories at certain points. The Eddie Fisher song playing in the final scene has some very touching lyrics that seemed vaguely appropriate for the moment. They are provided here as an endnote:
> 
> "With These Hands"
> 
> With these hands, I will cling to you,  
> I'm yours forever and a day.  
> With these hands, I will bring to you,  
> A tender love as warm as May.  
> With this heart I will sing to you,  
> Long after stars have lost their glow,
> 
> And with these hands, I'll provide for you,  
> Should there be a stormy sea,  
> I'll turn the tide for you,  
> And I'll never,  
> No, I'll never let you go.


End file.
